The Roads We Chose -- On hold indefinitely
by WordStained
Summary: "He died so you could live! Doesn't that mean anything to you?" "It means everything." "Then why are you doing this?" "There are only so many roads you can take in life, Dickie; this is mine." That one night sent two brothers down different roads, struggling with the lines that blur right and wrong. T for violence and language. AU Genres didn't really fit story.
1. Chapter 1: Here's to the Fallen

Summary: "He died so you could live! Doesn't that mean anything to you?" "It means everything." "Then why are you doing this?" "There are only so many roads you can take in life, Dickie; this is mine." That one night sent two brothers down different roads, struggling with the lines that blur right and wrong.

A/N: So this is an Under the Red Hood AU fic. I loved the movie, but I just kinda came up with this and had to write it down. Right now, the theme song is _Unknown Soldier_ by Breaking Benjamin. Hope you like it. Let me know what you think.

Chapter One: Here's to the Fallen

Jason

Pain. That was on the forefront of Jason's mind. Not death, not escape, not even anger. Just pain. Jason could take a beating, take a punch and hardly stop long enough to care. He'd been kicked while he was down, gotten a broken nose and some busted ribs. He'd been stabbed on the streets a time or two – nothing life-threatening, but painful just the same – and walked away alright. He'd even been grazed by bullets on more than one occasion, but got back up to keep fighting. He could take it.

But being bludgeoned with a crow bar by a madman was something else entirely. The first few hits were bearable. But they kept coming. Hit after hit, wave after wave of fresh pain somewhere else on his body. The back of his head, the side of it, his jaw, his chest, his abdomen, his sides, his back. All had was pain. But he could take it. He had to.

There was lots of blood. Even breathing was painful. The son of a bitch was teasing him, playin with him. It was all a sick game. He asked something, and Jason tried to tell him something he could go do with his damned crow bar, but the words were trapped in his throat, only a faint whisper managing to pass his lips. Then his face was right there, rancid breath filling Jason's flaming lungs as he said something about one being collapsed.

Jason spat in his face, the saliva thick with blood. "Now, _that_ was rude!" the Joker exclaimed, slamming Jason's face onto the floor before standing up to wipe the blood away with a handkerchief. "At least the first Boy Blunder has some manners! I should teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps." Beat. "Nah, I'm just going to keep beating you with this crow bar." And he did.

He supposed he could blame the Joker for his situation, but as easy as it would have been, he knew it was his own fault. He had been impulsive, taking off on his own into unknown danger despite Bruce's warning to be careful, to stake on his toes. He got cocky. And he got captured.

Jason wasn't the praying type. He didn't quite believe in God or Heaven. That night, though, he found himself screaming in his head for help to come, praying to ever god he could think of that he wouldn't die like that, bound on the floor and freezing, painted in his own blood.

Finally, it ended. Just like that. The Joker was babbling on, but Jason paid him no mind. He focused on breathing, in out in out in out, and laid motionless. It wasn't because he couldn't (though that was a distinct possibility as he hadn't tried), but he wanted that loon to think he was broken, beaten. Fallen.

Jason was never really one to give much thought to death, which was odd considering his line of work. He wasn't Superman. He didn't wear bullet-proof clothing. Any thug on the street could take him out in one shot, but that very real possibility never bothered him. But, there he was, right on death's doorstep. He thought about all the people like him who had lost their lives to men like the Joker. Hundred of thousands of them, human beings with lives and families and hopes and dreams. People who dared to stand or who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, or who simply got caught in the crossfire. He wondered what they thought, what they felt as they lived their last moments, drew in their last breaths, each and every one of them fallen. Like Jason.

"But, hey! Tell the big man I said, 'hello.'" The warehouse door slammed shut and Jason was alone at last. He let his eyes peel open. The door was right there, no more than a hundred feet away. That was his goal. The door. He could make it that far. The Joker wouldn't win.

Jason rolled over onto his back. Every movement brought new spikes of pain coursing through various places, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through it. Slipping his cuffed hands in front of him was easy enough; it was something Bruce insisted he learn to do in any situation. Then came the hard part: standing up. It took almost as much strength as he could muster to push himself up. His legs ached and felt like noodles. He couldn't find his balance. But he was up.

He took a step... and fell flat on his face. That was a set back, but he wasn't going to lay there and die. Jason lifted his head, eying the door. That was his goal. That was his mission, his purpose. Make it to the door. It's all that mattered in that moment. There was fire in his eyes as he used his elbows to drag himself across the freezing floor toward it. Streaks of blood painted his path.

Slowly, painfully, he made it. He made it. He reached the door. He reached for the handle, raising himself on his knees. His hand closed around it. It was almost painfully cold to the touch, but that didn't matter. He pulled it down... but it didn't budge.

No... It had to open! It had to! But it didn't. It was locked. The _ took his only hope, dangled it in front of his face like a chunk of meat in front of a hungry dog, and yanked it away, laughing as he did. That was so like him. Jason crumbled back to the floor, turning to lean against the wall. He would just have to wait for help to come. He lived that long, right? As far as he could tell, his wounds weren't so bad that he would bleed to death immediately – the bleeding seemed to have stopped altogether on some of the gashes – and he could breath, painful as it was. He had no doubt that Bruce would be there before too long, that he was already on his way. All Jason had to do was wait.

That's when he saw it. It was partially obscured in the shadows, beeping softly enough that Jason could hardly hear it over his own ragged breathing. It was a bomb. The timer read twenty seconds. Jason couldn't even think to be scared, just annoyed. Of _course_ the Joker would leave a bomb and no way out. Of course. Jason was no longer waiting for help, waiting for Bruce. He was waiting for death.

Another sound ripped through the air, drowning out both the ticking of the bomb and his breathing. It was familiar and sent a swell of hope through his chest (who would have thought that such a thing could possibly be painful?). That was the sound of Bruce's motorcycle, and it was right outside, he could tell.

"Jason," he heard Bruce call, secret identities be damned. But with a collapsed lung, he could hardly call back. Instead, he lifted his hands over his head and started beating them against the wall with everything he had left in him. It was enough. The door burst open and the familiar looming shape of Batman stood over him.

Bruce picked him up gently. His face was a a hard mask. But he didn't know about the bomb. "Br... Bru-huh... Bru-gah!" Speaking was hard when your lungs didn't work.

"Shh. It's okay."

"No... Bah... bah-huhg... bahmmmm." Jason tilted his head toward it. Bruce understood. He looked over his shoulder at the thing. It only had five seconds left on it. Bruce didn't have time to think, he simply reacted. He sat Jason carefully on his feet and promptly shoved him out the door; running would have taken too long. Jason, of course, didn't have a chance of staying on his feet and went flying. He rolled down the embankment, every bump jarring.

By the time he reached the bottom, coming to a harsh stop against a barbed wire fence, he could hardly breathe anymore. Then he was deafened and blinded by the explosion. He just barely managed to put his hands over his face to protect it.

~OoO~

Jason must have blacked out after that, because when he woke up, he was was an in a soft bed. He still hurt like hell, but he was at least comfortable. He would have guessed he was in a hospital, but it didn't have the anticeptic-y smell he associated with one. In face, he could smell... what was that? Fire? Yeah, he could hear it too, crackling away in a fire place.

He really wanted to drift back into sleep, hope that when he woke up again, things would make more sense and he didn't hurt so much, but he could feel someone else was in the room with him – instinct honed over years didn't just turn off, even when you got beaten within and inch of your life. So Jason forced his eyes to open. The room slowly swam into focus. It wasn't anywhere he knew. It was large and lavishly decorated. Not even the rooms in Wayne manor looked like that. It was old money.

There was a woman sitting by his bed, quietly reading a thick book with a title in a language Jason either didn't know or couldn't decipher through what was undoubtedly a massive concussion. It took him a moment to recognize her. Talia al Ghul, a woman Jason had only met fleetingly through Bruce. Some old flame of his or something.

"Wha's up?" he asked groggily. His voice sounded like a meet processor, and didn't feel too much better.

"You're awake," she said in her smooth voice, pointing out the obvious. "How do you feel?"

"Peachy." Her gaze didn't waiver, she just waited for the real answer. "Like shit, but I'll manage." He decided against saying 'I'll live' because he honestly didn't know that. "Where am I?"

"You're safe. That is all you need to know." If he felt any better, he would have rolled his eyes at that lovely response, but he just didn't have the energy.

"Where's Bruce?" For a second, he held his breath. Did he really just say that? Then he remembered that Talia already knew his secret. And he realized he wasn't wearing his mask anymore, not that it would do much good as torn up as he was sure it had been.

Talia didn't answer, she looked down. Her face was unreadable (or maybe it wasn't, but Jason couldn't tell either way). "Talia, where is Bruce?" He forced himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest.

"I don't know. We haven't seen him in a week." Jason tried to understand that statement. A week? How long was he out? As if reading his mind, Talia said, "We found you in a very bad condition. We've kept you sedated since bringing you back here so you wouldn't impede your healing process and you wouldn't be in pain. Now that we are sure you aren't going to die and the internal bleeding has stopped, we decided it was time to let you wake." Well, that was one question answered.

"What do you mean you haven't seen him? Did he say why?" She wouldn't look him in the eyes. It didn't do much to reassure him. "Well?"

"Jason, Bruce is missing. We haven't seen him at all. When we found you, with Bruce nowhere to be seen, my father ordered the wreckage to be searched. All we found of him..." Her voice trailed off.

"Was what?" Jason demanded. She sighed and pulled something off the table. It was piece of singed black cloth. "What is-" It fell into a familiar shape. Bruce's cowl. "No... no, I don't- No."

"Jason... we'll keep looking, but... I'm afraid-"

"Shut up. He's not dead."

"Jason-"

"He's not. Just you wait; he'll show up." But even as he said the words, he couldn't force himself to believe them. "Just... just leave me alone." She looked like she wanted to protest, but she didn't. She just stood and walked for the door.

"Get some rest; your body is still recovering and rest will make you heal sooner." And then she was gone and Jason was alone. The reality of that statement crashed over him like a tidal wave. He was alone in a mansion (or so he presumed, based on what he knew about Ra's al Ghul) with people that could decide to kill him just as easily as they decided to help him. He was alone in a country that spoke a language he didn't. He was alone and in pain and in no condition to fight back if more hell broke loose.

And, if Bruce was in any condition to function properly, he would have contacted them or something. He knew Ra's was there, he would be the first person Bruce would ask. That could mean one of two things: Bruce was unconscious or incapacitated somewhere Ra's and his men hadn't yet checked or found (which after a week, wouldn't be a very good thing); or he was, as Talia suggested, dead.

But, after everything, how could Bruce be dead? He'd survived so much crap, many would believe he was invincible. He was the freaking Batman, for God's sake! But he was also a human. Nothing more than a man who had honed his body into a weapon. Not invincible, not invulnerable. Just a man who fell, just like Jason.

Batman had fallen, and it was all Jason's fault.


	2. Chapter 2: Worlds Rocked

Chapter Two: Worlds Rocked

Dick

"I'm still not sure about this, Al," Dick muttered, staring out over the night-blackened ocean. The moon was just a sliver in the star-dotted sky. He was relying on the GPS devices to get him to his destination, Bosnia. "I mean, why wouldn't he call me himself? There's no way he would ask Ra's to do it for him. Or leave Jason there, for that matter."

"I agree, sir. It is most peculiar. Though, if memory serves, Mr. Ghul never quite said Master Bruce asked him to do anything." Dick narrowed his eyes. Al had a point, and it only made the young man hate the situation even more. He had insisted on going on the mission, but Bruce was confidant that he and Jason would be plenty, that Dick should stay in the city with Barbara and keep an eye on things. Two's company, but three's a crowd and all. It had been almost two and a half weeks since he'd heard anything – something that was driving him up a wall – and then, out of the blue, he got a video call from Ra's al Ghul himself.

Ra's hadn't been very forthcoming with the details, either. After assuring Dick that his intentions were peaceful, he informed him that the mission – which had been to stop him, by the way – had gone awry. Jason was severely injured and he was being well cared for, but it would be best for all involved if Dick would 'come and retrieve' him. When he asked why Bruce didn't just bring him home himself, he was told simply that "the detective is indisposed." Needless to say, that didn't sit well with Dick, but he couldn't very well leave Jason there.

"Are we at least sure this isn't a trap?" he asked with a sigh. "I mean, he _has _kidnapped me before."

"The truth, Master Dick? I can not say one way or the other how this will transpire."

"Awesome." See? Jason wasn't the only one who could be sarcastic.

"Please do be careful, Richard," Al told him, voice full of concern. It almost made Dick feel guilty; the poor guy worried about them all so much, it must have been miserable always watching them place themselves right in harm's way, in front of bullets and lunatics who wanted their heads mounted on the wall. "We do not know how Jason got to be in such a bad way. It would not do for you both to be severely injured so far from home while Master Bruce is... unavailable." Dick nodded solemnly.

"Don't worry, Al. I'll be careful. Promise." He didn't say he would be okay; he hated making promises he wasn't sure he would be able to keep. "See ya soon."

"I shall be waiting. Do tell me what preparations will need to be made for Master Jason."

"Will do." And the called ended, screen fading to black. Dick sighed again. He was alone, and his unease with the situation was eating him up inside. His mind kept supplying him with some ever-so-lovely images about what would be waiting for him when he reached Bosnia, and he couldn't seem to turn them off.

He was relieved when he finally saw land break out of the water, small pinpoints of light marking the port towns that lined the coast. The coordinates he was given indicated that Ra's's residence was only about twenty miles inland. He was almost there.

It was evident where he was meant to land. Space on a cliff very near an extravagant manor was lined with lights. A few people bustled around, and a voice came over his com telling him in a thick accent that they were ready for his descent. He let the jet sink toward the ground, surveying the area carefully as he drew closer and closer to touching down. Finally, he landed and had to kill the engine, but not before activating the multiple security systems the plane had in its arsenal.

A familiar faced welcomed him as he hopped down, landing lightly on his feet like he had done a million times. "Talia," he greeted cordially – not pleasantly, mind you. There wasn't much pleasant about his visit at all. "It's been a while."

"Too long," she agreed with a nod. He didn't miss the guarded tone in her voice. It didn't do much to make him feel better. "Come. We have much to discuss." She started walking and he followed, boots crunching softly on the fresh white snow.

The wind bit his face, but he couldn't care less about something so trivial. "I'm here to get Jason," he told her firmly. "Nothing more."

"I understand that, but my father wishes to speak to you. He... there are things you must know, and he wishes to be the one to tell you." Her voice was thick. Something about this was hard for her to swallow, something was threatening to collapse her usually cool and collected exterior. That was never a good sign, especially not with someone as dangerous as Talia al Ghul.

"At least tell me if he's alright, then."

She looked over her shoulder at him, but couldn't read his eyes behind his – completely literal – mask. "He is very strong. He will survive." The comment didn't sound sarcastic or biting like 'I think you'll live' might have sounded. It was sincere. Jason dying had been a legitimate concern, something that threatened to make Dick's blood boil in his veins. He didn't like it when people messed with his brother. "Not many who have had to endure what he did would."

Dick didn't know how to respond to that. He was spared from having to say anything, however, because they were at the manor. A door was opened for them and he followed Talia in. She began filling the silence with the history of this piece of art or that piece of furniture. The student in him couldn't help but listen and be amazed. After working their way through a maze of hallways (which Dick, out of habit, took careful not of, just in case) he was ushered into a library-esque study. Ra's was there, standing facing away from them in front of a very inviting fire place, hands behind his back.

"Father," Talia said, "here is here." Ra's nodded, turning slowly to face them. It was easy to forget just how old the man was, young and fit as he looked. Thinking about it threatened to send a shiver down Dick's spine; the thought of those Lazarus pits creeped him out to no end.

"Thank you, Talia. If you would leave us to speak-"

"But, Father," Talia hissed, eyes taking a lethal edge. Her shields were coming down around her; something was definitely screwy-er with the whole thing than Dick could have possibly anticipated. He was on high alert, waiting for the a punch line he was sure would follow this joke. "This concerns me as much as it concerns you." Something gleamed in Ra's's eyes that Dick couldn't quite place.

"Please, Talia. Perhaps you would be so kind as to go speak to our young guest." As Dick was standing right in front of him, there was no doubt Ra's was referring to Jason. Who else could it have possibly been, after all?

"You know he refuses to speak to me." That almost made Dick smile. Jason was being as stubborn as ever, even on his sick bed.

"Perhaps he will be inclined to listen once you tell him he is going home." For some reason, that did a lot to calm Dick's nerves. It very easily could have been a lie, an elaborate ruse planned and set up days before he was even contacted – he wouldn't have put it past those people – but just hearing the words spoken aloud and in person made him think that maybe, just maybe, Ra's was being straight with him about his peaceful intentions.

Talia stared her father in the eyes for a long moment before nodding curtly and turning on her heels. She disappeared from the room, but Dick could hear her footsteps fading away down the hall. He was a little sad to see her go. He may not have liked her too much, but she was a familiarity at least. Ra's... wasn't.

"So, Richard – do you mind if I call you Richard?" Dick shook his head absently. "Richard, you must be quite confused. I do apologize for being so vague when we spoke."

"It's cool," he said lamely, eyes darting around the room, drinking in every detail. "Don't suppose you'd mind filling in a couple of blanks, though, would you?"

"Of course."

"So, what happened, exactly?" There was a sadness... no, that is the wrong word; a better one would be regret. There was a regret in his eyes that Dick didn't understand.

"I must apologize once more. What has happened here is on my head, the blood spilled is on my hands entirely. I am sorry. I have caused your family much pain." That was oddly out of character, or so it seemed to Dick. He didn't like it. Bad guys didn't apologize to the good guys. That's just not really how things worked.

"What happened?" he demanded through gritted teeth, hands clenching into fists.

"Young Jason was captured by the Joker-"

"Wait!" he interrupted. "Where did he come from?"

"Er... that is irrelevant." Dick's masked eyes narrowed. He didn't like that tone at all. He was hiding some dirty little secret; that fact was incredibly transparent, espcecially coming from someone like Ra's al Ghul. "But her got the boy all the same. The madman... he beat the boy with a crow bar within an inch of his life." He his fists tightened impossibly; if he hadn't been wearing gloves, he was sure his palms would have been bleeding and his knuckles would have been stark white. It was the Joker who nearly killed his brother. "There was a bomb. The detective made it just in time to get Jason out. We found the boy freezing and unconscious at the bottom of an embankment. He had suffered a lot of injuries." Dick was having trouble putting the pieces together completely. He was missing something.

"Wait, where was Bruce." There was that regret thing in Ra's eye again. That was the piece he was missing, he could feel it. Something was very wrong.

"We do not know. He is missing." Dick didn't say anything, didn't feel anything. He felt numb, blood running cold in his veins. His mind refused to comprehend those words; somehow, they didn't belong together, not in that order.

"Bruce... is missing?" Ra's nodded. Dick then understood that regret in his eyes. Bruce and Jason had only been on that mission to stop Ra's operations. Ra's felt guilty, or at least something as close to guilt as a man like him could feel. Jason nearly died, and if anything happened to Bruce, that would all be on him as well. Just like he had already said.

"There is something you should see," Ra's said, breaking through Dick's stupor. He walked over to a grandiose desk and picked up a scrap of black cloth. Dick's heart sunk into stomach; there were only so many things that it could possibly be pertaining to their conversation. When the ageless man pressed it into his hands, his suspicions were proved to be correct. It was the Batman cowl. Singed and tattered from the blast, he presumed. The implications were clear. Bruce was caught in the explosion and, if he was alive, he was running around (or comatose) sans the mask. Dick crumbled the cowl up in his fist, a surge of anger swelling through him, something rare in the easy-going and lighthearted boy.

"Does Jason know about this?"

"Yes. Talia told him when he woke up." _Well_, Dick thought, _that explains why he's not talking to her_. "You may have realized this on your own, but no body has been recovered. I have ordered my men to search for the detective, and the local authorities are searching for Mr. Wayne, who was last seen in the financial district when it went under fire in a recent terror attack." It took Dick a moment to understand what he was saying, because it didn't make a whole lot of sense. Then it dawned on him that Ra's had created a cover story for him, something to use to explain why Mr. Wayne might not return to Gotham City after his latest business trip and why his youngest ward was on the mend after a temporary stay on his death bed. "But it has been two weeks since the incident. We will not stop looking as such, but I think you should get used to the idea that the detective may be dead." Dick looked back down at the tattered cowl. He still felt numb.

"I want to see Jason now," he said softly after a long moment. But he wasn't sure if that was exactly what he wanted at all. What he wanted... He wanted to be out there searching for Bruce. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't be. If anyone could find him, it was Dick. But Jason needed him. Leaving him there where he could potentially be in danger despite Ra's's (possibly temporary) truce, that would be selfish and irresponsible, and Al would never forgive him for leaving his brother like that.

"Of course," the man agreed. "Talia will show you the way." Dick looked back up at him in confusion. Didn't she go talk – or attempt to talk to at any rate – to Jason? But, as if on cue, the door opened and the woman in question walked in. Unlike last time, however, she had a small cut on her forehead bleeding sluggishly over her right eye, and Dick had a sinking suspicion that Jason was behind it. He didn't feel too bad, though. And Ra's didn't look concerned either. He wondered if it was a regular thing.

"Of course I will, Father. This way, please." She gestured toward the open door. With another glance at the scrap of cloth in his hand, he walked over to join her. Once again, they took to the winding halls of the manor. Talia was silent, leaving Dick to commit their path to memory in peace. But he was far from peaceful. His stomach felt like it was caught in a vice, his head reeled with the sheer impossibility of the whole situation. Could Bruce really be dead? Would he really never see his mentor's face again? Or would the next and last time be right before the lid of a casket was slammed down over top of it, sealing him in forever before lowering him six feet under?

"We are here," Talia said, stopping abruptly in front of a closed door. "I do not know how you put up with him," she huffed before stamping away. Before disappearing around the corner, she called back to him once more. "I will be back in an hour, after preparations for your departure are made." And she was gone.

Dick turned back to the door. He drew in a breath as his hand closed around the door knob. He didn't know what he would see when he opened it, what state he would find his little brother – thought, little was a relative term; Dick by nature had a more slight, lithe form where Jason was built somewhat broader – in, and the thought scared him. But Jason was waiting for him. And, besides, he had seen worse. Right? So he pushed the door open and stepped in.

Jason was laying in a bed tucked in the corner of an admittedly spacious room, covered to the waist with a soft-looking white blanket. The night stand to the right of the bed was laden with bottles of medication that had labels in a language he didn't read, as well as a pitcher of water and a glass. His mask, ripped badly in a couple places and darkened with dried blood, seemed to have been tossed haphazardly to the edge, and threatened to fall down behind the table. Jason looked up from the book he was reading, which in and of itself surprised Dick to no end (Jason wasn't much for reading), and flashed a small, lopsided grin, just like the Jason he knew and tolerated ninety percent of the time.

But this Jason was a ghost. What patches of his skin that weren't painted purple, yellow, or greenish with bruises were pale, and it was stretched tight across his cheek bones. His eyes seemed sunken in, and the purple half-circles under them stood out prominently. His hair was lank, hanging limply in his eyes. Dick could easily see, completely believe, that this boy had faced death. And he probably gave it that stupid grin and told it to go shove it. Because that's just how Jason Todd is.

"Wow," Dick said, pushing down the swell of anger that tightened his chest almost painfully. "You look like complete and utter hell." Jason grinned again, bigger this time.

"Yeah, that tends to happen when a psycho beats the shit out of you." Well, he was in good spirits, at least, but Dick could see in his eyes a darkness that he had only seen there a few times before. He knew Jason walked on a fine line between rising to Bruce's expectations of him and falling through the cracks. And it all hinged on that darkness. That he could hide it so well in his eyes was the proof. It broke through his mask whenever he had vengeance on his mind, however, when he was out for blood. That didn't happen often, and only once did he – possibly – act upon it, something Dick wasn't sure Bruce every fully forgave him for.

The difference that time, though, was that Dick knew it was reflected in his own eyes as well. He wanted the Joker's head on a plate. He had no idea what he would do the next time he saw the criminal, but he had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach that it would not be pretty. But he wouldn't take the life. Bruce would never have wanted that, even if the man was the reason he was dead. If he was even dead at all. _But_, Dick wondered, _would he feel differently now that the Joker almost took Jason away from them_?

"Part of it is all the stupid meds they have me on," Jason said, bringing Dick back to reality. He had once again buried the darkness in his eyes, but that didn't comfort Dick in the slightest. "That, and this damn light diet crap. I dunno. I just kinda tuned her out whenever she started talking."

"What did you do to her, by the way?" Dick couldn't help but ask. "She didn't have that cut on her eye earlier." Jason's grin went from lighthearted to downright devious and he pointed to a spot by the door. There was a book laying opened, pages crumpled.

"Threw that at her when she walked in."

"Why?" He shrugged.

"I told her to leave me alone. She didn't." Dick rolled his eyes as he crossed the room. There was a laying overturned by the bed. He didn't ask why it was like that, he didn't want to know. He just picked it up and sat down.

"How do you feel?"

"Right now? Nothing at all. They got me on more painkillers than I think I've ever taken in my life." He closed the book without marking his page and tossed it to the foot of his bed. Dick snorted in laughter when he read the title. "What?"

"_Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_? Really, Jay?" He shrugged again.

"She said if I insisted on reading something, it might as well be at an elementary level. She didn't want to 'over do' it since I've got a nasty concussion. Nothing that requires too much brain function. He nudged it with his toe, sending it over the edge to join the other book on the floor. "It's stupid as crap. But it sure as hell beats sitting here and staring at the wall all day, I guess. I've read it three times now."

"I thought you weren't talking to her."

"I wasn't. She was talking. I was ignoring." A beat of silence passed between the brothers. "Did they tell you about-"

"Yeah." He held up the cowl. "They'll find him, though."

"What do you mean 'they?' Aren't you going to go look for him too?" Dick sighed, not meeting his brother's eyes. He hated that accusatory tone in his voice. It was like he was saying 'don't you care enough to go look?'

"Believe me, Jay, I want to. I really do. But I need to get you home." Jay rolled his eyes in exasperation. Dick couldn't see the darkness in his eyes, thankfully; they were now too full of annoyance to let anything else show through. Annoyance at Dick.

"But you won't come back after, will you?" Dick shook his head. Jason broke eye contact, instead looking over Dick's shoulder out a window into the pitch black night. "Why the hell not?"

"Because if Ra's hasn't found him yet, do you really think I'll do any better? Look, Jay, I don't want him to be dead either, but..."

"So you're just giving up." Dick clenched his teeth, anger boiling very near the surface. He shouldn't be getting mad at Jason, now while he was in the condition he was in, but the boy was just so infuriating. "You're giving up like a damn coward."

Jason jumped, wincing slightly, when Dick's fist slammed down loudly on the night stand, toppling some of the bottles of medicine. The mask slipped further down, barely clinging on to the edge of the table. "I'm not giving up. I'm doing what's rational. I don't know where he is. I don't know anything about this country. It wouldn't do anyone any good for me to look for him. So I'm taking your ass home and I'm going to try and handle things with the company and the public so people don't start getting suspicious. Is that okay with you?"

Jason's eyes were wide. Dick didn't lash out like that often, and it was never very pretty when he did. With a sigh, Jason nodded. "Yeah. I guess."

"They'll find him, Jay." Dick stopped himself from continuing that thought, but Jason caught the word that hung unspoken in the air between them.

"What, no promise?"

"You know I hate making promises-"

"If you're not sure you can keep them. Yeah, I know."


	3. Chapter 3: Here We Are

A/N: If anyone is wondering, the reason why somethings are extraneously wordy, or if anything seems to go off from what was being talked about, it's because this is my NaNoWriMo, and I'm doing it all intentionally to up my word count. And that's just what Jason decided he wanted to think about. Characters tend to do that, but that's a good thing, right? So yeah, hope you like it. Let me know what you think. And I apologize for any typos or grammar mistakes, I try but I usually don't catch everything, especially since I babysit most nights and do you have any idea how hard it is to proof-read with a two-year-old and four-year-old running around and screaming? Spoiler alert: quite hard. I don't recommend it. Oh, and this chapter is inspired by and named after the the song _Here We Are_ by Breaking Benjamin (if you don't know them, check them out!)

* * *

Chapter Three: Here We Are

Over the next couple of weeks, Jason decided that he hated his room with a passion. It felt, to him, more like a prison cell. He supposed he shouldn't have complained too much; he had a TV with cable and a laptop with Internet, and that was all great. What was killing him was the fact he had been staring at the same walls since we he got home. In Bosnia, he had only been awake for four days before Dick came to get him, and even that threatened to snap his sanity in half.

But he felt fine. Not Dick, not Al, not Doc Leslie ever put much stock in that statement whenever he felt the need to bring it up. They just kind of rolled their eyes and said, "Yes, Jason, we know, but you still need rest." Sure, Doc said he was more than capable of getting up and walking around, and he did, but she (and Al and Dick) didn't think it would be a good idea for him to get up and walk around the manor without 'supervision.' It just made him feel like a damn child.

But what he really wanted, above all else, was a cigarette. Al had, for some reason, done a sweep of his room before he got home and came across his stash hidden in his sock drawer. Jason didn't know what was worse: the lecture about the evils of smoking or the thought of how long it would probably be until he could get another smoke. He couldn't very well get up and go into town, could he? And Dick, of course, just kind of laughed and gave Jason a look that said, "What do you want me to do? He's Al, I'm not going to argue with him."

There was a soft knock on his door. He glanced at his clock, the luminescent green numbers informing him that it was just after noon. It would be Al with lunch at his door, just like every day. "Come in." Jason didn't look up as the door opened.

"How are you feeling, Master Jason?" Al asked as he placed a bowl on Jason's bedside table. It was some kind of thick soup topped with shredded cheese that smelled absolutely fantastic.

"I've told you a million times, Al. I feel fine." Al smiled, nodding a little as if to say, "oh, that's nice."

"Have you taken your medication, yet?"

"Yeah," Jason said, just a little too quickly; Al didn't seem to notice. "You worry too much, Al. No need to be such a mother hen." Al chuckled a bit under his breath.

"I apologize, sir." He didn't sound very sorry, at least not to Jason. After picking up the basket of laundry, Al made for the door, but stopped in the door way. "I shall be going into the city run some errands here shortly. I estimate I shall return by four or five o'clock, so you will be alone for a few hours. Do try to keep out of trouble, won't you?"

"How much trouble can I get up to in my room, Al?" Jason asked with a grin on his face. It didn't do much to reassure the man.

"I shudder at the very thought." The door closed and Jason grabbed his bowl of soup. He blew away the puffs of steam that curled off of it as he stirred the melting cheese into it. It proved to be as delicious as it smelled. It was some potato soup with bacon bits or something like that. Unfortunately, it didn't last very long. They were steadily increasing the proportions of his meals, but more often than not, they left him feeling very unsatisfying. Doc Leslie promised he could return to normal eating habits after another week, about the time she guessed he would be out of any foreseeable danger as a backlash from his injuries. Jason insisted he was fine already, but, hey, he wasn't the doctor; she was.

Jason spent the half an hour that followed scrolling through his FaceBook page, something that he had done only a handful of times since starting the account. He found social media pointless and annoying. But he was desperate. He completely agreed with the notion that there were five hundred channels and nothing to watch.

A kernel of a thought had been planted in his brain though, and no amount of stupid status updates could seem to kill it. _Al is gone_, it reminded him. _You're home alone. Who can stop you from leaving your room? Just do it._ But if he got caught. . . he shuddered at the thought. _What are you, a baby? What's he going to do? Scold you? Not give you any desert? Big whoop. Just do it._

His devious inner voice was right; Al wasn't there to stop him, Dick wasn't there to stop him, and the Doc wasn't there to stop them. And even if he got caught, so what? His mind was made up; he was busting out of his cell, warden and prison guards be damned.

But, just to be safe – and less likely to get in trouble because he seemed at least somewhat responsible – he wrote a short note and put it on his pillow. **Going downstairs, in case you're wondering.** He slipped on a pair of slippers (where did those come from, anyway?) and, for the first time in two weeks, left his room. His muscles were still a little sore and his body ached a bit, but walking around, more than just a few feet to go take a piss or get in the shower, felt great.

He didn't have a specific destination in mind as he slowly took the stairs down to a the lower level. His feet, of their own accord, carried him to the old grandfather clock in Bruce's study. He debated it for a long moment before opening the secret door that rested behind it. It took him a while to hobble his way down, careful not to jar his broken ribs too much.

The cool, moist air of the cave felt wonderful on his heated skin. The familiar earthy smell of damp rock, tinged with something of a metallic tang, was comforting, as was the high-pitch – almost inaudibly so – keening squeak of bats overhead. Jason sighed with content as he lowered himself down into the wide chair that sat before the computer module. Carefully, he drew his legs up too, leaning heavily into the plush back of the chair. The journey through the manor and down into the cave had been more tiring than he realized, not that he was complaining. For the first time in weeks, his muscles didn't feel stiff and sore, even if his chest was a little tight after exerting the effort it took to get down there. Not like he was just going to turn around and go back upstairs anyway.

Jason was surprised when he noticed his Robin uniform hanging half way off a table. He chewed on his lip for a moment before sliding his feet down off the chair and slipping them back into the slippers. Pushing himself up was a bit harder than he had anticipated, but he didn't care. He crossed the floor slowly, eyes locked on the red cloth like it was a lure on a fishing rod; he was hooked.

He ran a hand over it when he reached the table. It was ripped all to hell, spots of it stained a darker – almost black – red from his blood. The cape was just a scrap of yellow and black, mangled beyond repair. It would have to be replaced. It was weird, he realized, that what struck him most was that his suit was in such a state of disrepair, not that he was in it when it got that way. For some reason, his mind had trouble putting him there when it happened.

Like most people who experience a traumatic event, Jason's mind kept flashing back to it without him really meaning to. Something he would hear or see on TV or read online would call it back to the forefront of his mind. It wasn't quite Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, because he didn't freak out and it didn't really scare him. He just remembered. Dick was in the room with him once when it happened. He said Jason just kind of spaced out for a moment, looked like he was concentrating pretty hard on something.

But when it came to mind, it wasn't like it was happening – er. . . had happened to him at all. It was like he was watching the scene unfold from the background, unable to help, unable to stop it. It was like some crappy action movie where the douche bag main character got captured by the bad guy and was being tortured for information or just beaten for the sake of being beaten. Jason just couldn't make him see it through his own eyes, couldn't make it him.

Then his hand ran across a cloth different than the smooth texture of the suit, this one stiff. It was his mask. The dark green scrap, too, was tattered and blood-stained. He snatched it up mindlessly and returned to his chair, nearly collapsing on it when he got there. Once he was comfortable, he held the mask in his hands, staring at it. It was like looking at a ghost, like looking at a picture of someone who had died.

The mask stared back, it seemed, empty eye holes looking up at him in resentment and anger. It was his fault, it reminded him. Everything was all Jason's fault. Bruce was dead, and that was on Jason. He was stupid, and reckless. He didn't deserve to wear that mask. For the first time in a long time, Jason let his mask – the one he wore every day, all the time – slip, and he felt tears stinging behind his eyes.

He must have fallen asleep after that, because he didn't remember anything after that until loudly echoing footsteps reverberating off the cave walls pulled him back to the land of the living and his eyes snapped open. He sat up, back incredibly stiff from the awkward position he had slipped into. The mask was no longer in his hands; he saw the edge of it out of the corner of his eye off to the side of the chair. He must have dropped it.

"Jay, you down here?" the familiar tenor of Dick's voice called, sounding wavy and faded from echoing off the walls.

"Yeah-hmm," Jason responded as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "'Sup?" Dick's figure swam into Jason's line of vision. He was wearing a medium-blue button down and jeans, hair clearly unkempt, but looking like he styled it that way nonetheless. That was the thing about Dick that Jason could never figure out. Somehow, he always managed to look stylish, casual, and well-groomed, all at the same time and without trying. Only a few times had Jason seem him looking haggard and ruffled enough that it warranted a deliberate effort to appear semi-decent. Jason, on the other hand, always looked more like a thug in torn jeans, ratty t-shirt, and black leather jacket. Long story short: Dick looked like he was the ward of a billionaire, Jason. . . did not.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Oh, you know, chilling with the bats. Same old, same old." Okay, so his wit didn't work quite so well when he first woke up. "What time is it?"

"'Bout six." Jason whistled. That was longer than he had even considered staying out. He had actually planned to be back in his room before Al could come home and find him gone. "Don't worry, I knew as soon as Al said he was going out that you would do something like this, so I headed him off. Told him I called you to check in and you said you were going to get some sleep, so he shouldn't bother you."

"Thanks."

"Though, I gotta admit, I'm surprised you came down here." Dicks eyes locked onto a spot on the floor near his feet; he bent down and scooped up Jason's mask. "You've been thinking about that night a lot, haven't you."

"Does it matter?"

"Maybe. You know, I'm no expert, but I've heard that talking about stuff like that can help." Jason raised an eyebrow and Dick sighed, turning the chair slowly and leaning against the computer console. "I knew Bruce didn't put much stock in talking about things, but that doesn't mean it doesn't work, that it can't help." He handed the mask back to Jason. Jason stared into it's eye holes again, thought after thought circling his mind like flies on a hot summer day.

"I. . . I have been thinking a lot. . . ."

"As I already figured. What about?" Jason sighed, turning his head and looking out over the drop off to the dark wall beyond that, studying the way the shadow met the light from the overhead floodlights. "Jay?"

"How do you do it? How do you keep getting up and going out again and again, even after something awful happens?" Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. Not exactly the kind of question he was expecting.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just take it one day at a time, you know? Put one foot in front of the other and keep on walking."

"I keep thinking about what we do. I think about it. . . and I keep wondering; is what we do right?"

"How do you mean?" Jason didn't answer, still staring off into space. "Jay?"

"I don't know," he snapped, then sighed, turning back to look his brother in the eyes. "I mean, I always knew we were doing good, fighting crime and all, but what happened. . . it made me realize something. No matter how much crime we stop, no matter how many people we lock up, there's always more waiting in the wings, ready to push more drugs, steal more money, rob more museums. . . hurt more people. And we all know Arkham ain't doing shit to actually keep it's loons locked up. I can't help but wonder, what if we're doing what's right the wrong way?"

Dick regarded Jason evenly, eyes not betraying anything. Jason wondered what he was looking for. Finally, he spoke. "I don't know. I never thought about it like that." He chewed on his lip as he considered Jason's words. "I think. . . I think the way we've been doing things is good, even if Arkham's security is a little lax. There's always going to be more crime. The best we can do is take it out, one criminal at a time."

"I'm not so sure," Jason muttered, looking down at the floor.

"And that's okay." His head snapped back up. Had he heard Dick right? "At the risk of sounding completely cliché, we're all different, Jay. Different things work for different people. What's right for me, right for Bruce, it doesn't have to be right for you too. You think it's not?" He shrugged. "That's cool. The problem isn't finding that it's wrong; it's finding what's right once you do. Does that make sense?" Jason thought about that, nodding slowly.

"I think so."

"Good. Don't worry about it; you'll figure it out. Now, come on, let's get you upstairs. You look exhausted, and I'll never hear the end of it if Al finds out that I lied to him." Jason nodded and stood. He wobbled a little, way more tired than he thought, despite his five and a half hour nap. He would have fallen if Dick hadn't put a hand on his shoulder for support.

They walked up the narrow stairway slowly, Dick behind Jason with a hand braced firmly against his back, between the shoulder blades. Jason tried not to let it make him feel like a child. They just made it up to Jason's floor, when his door opened and a very irate Al walked out. He jumped a little when he saw the two brothers, then crossed his arms and gave them a very disapproving look.

"Oh, hey, Al!" Dick said, pushing Jason a little to get him to walk forward. "Dang, I thought for sure I was going to get you back before dinner, Jay."

"You are behind this, Richard?" Al asked, heated gaze turning to Dick. Dick grinned sheepishly, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

"Yeah, he practically begged me to spring him. He was kinda going a little stir-crazy, so I thought it wouldn't hurt to take him down to the den for a little while." Al sighed, nodding a little.

"Alright, I can understand that. Next time, however, Master Dick, I would appreciate if you would tell me."

"'Course, Al. I'm sorry." Al didn't look like he believed that all too much. Probably because Dick didn't look like he meant it too much.

"Master Jason, there is a plate of cold-cut sandwiches in there for dinner, if you are hungry. And, do try to get some rest. You look quite worn."

Jason nodded as Dick pushed him toward the door. "I will." Al nodded and walked away without another word. Dick pulled the door closed behind them and Jason sunk down onto his bed, grabbing the plate of sandwiches and digging in. "Ooo want onn?" he asked with his mouth full.

"Pass. Hey, I got you something," Dick told him, motioning to a gray plastic grocery bag sitting on Jason's dresser. "I don't know why I did, I guess I just felt bad, but I got it."

"Whaa's ihh?" Jason asked, still around food.

"I really shouldn't give it to you," Dick said, picking the bag up and piquing Jason's interest. The boy swallowed his food audibly. "And I'm only going to on one condition."

"Which is?"

"I'm controlling it." Jason narrowed his eyes. That was oddly suspicious for Dick.

"What the hell is it?" Dick grinned, untying the handles of the bag and reaching in. The first thing he pulled out was. . . an ashtray? Jason's eyes widened at the implications of that. When he pulled out a Bic brand lighter, Jason grinned. Finally, he pulled out the one thing Jason had been dying for for a month; a pack of cigarettes. And they were his brand, too.

"I love you," Jason deadpanned, eyes not leaving the pack of smokes.

"Buuut!" Dick said, ripping the plastic off the top of the pack and pocketing it. "Since your lungs are still messed up, and I'm pretty sure Doc Leslie would skin me alive if she found out, I'm only going to give you one every other day until she says your lungs are all clear."

Jason thought about that for a moment. Normally, he would have argued that he was fine and that Dick was just being a jack ass, but it had been a month and one every other day sounded like a blessing. Besides, before Bosnia, he only smoked two a day anyway.

"Deal," he agreed, holding his hand out. "Gimme." Chuckling, Dick tipped the pack and tapped it against his hand, grabbing the cigarette that poked out. Jason could have sworn Dick was teasing him. But finally, he had the cigarette, ashtray, and lighter in his hand. He moved himself to the window and pushed it open before lighting it. The first long drag was like Heaven. He must have had a pretty silly look on his face because Dick laughed again. "Shut up."

Putting his hands up in truce, Dick said, "Didn't say a word, Jay." Jason was staring at him curiously. "What?"

"Look at you, endorsing underage smoking. Who'd'a thunk it?" Dick shrugged.

"I figured you deserved something to go your way." Silence hung between them after that. "I'm going to go check and see if any of your meds say anything about smoking." He started for the bathroom door.

"No!" Jason protested, nearly dropping his cigarette – and he highly doubted Dick would give him another if he did. Dick spun back around, arching an eyebrow. "I mean, I'll do it later. Don't bother." Dick just rolled his eyes and went anyway. Jason sighed, taking another drag and leaning his head against the window sill.

"Hey, Jay, shouldn't you be almost out?" Dick asked, coming out of the bathroom with three bottles in his hands. Jason just shrugged, not looking at his brother. He could already see the gears grinding in the older boy's brain as he did the math. "You haven't been taking them as often as you should be, have you?" He said noting, staring out the window at the sky painted orange and pink by the setting sun. "Jay, you gotta take your meds! Don't you want to get better?" Jason didn't look at his brother.

"I don't like drugs."

The awkwardness was palpable, handing in the air between them. After a long moment, Dick sighed and sat the bottles on the dresser where the bag had been. "Just, take you medicine, okay."

"Okay." Dick pulled the door open, stepping out into the hall.

"And, Jay? If Al finds out about the cigarettes, you didn't get them from me."


	4. Chapter 4: Dawn of a New Day

Chapter Four: Dawn of a New Day

Dick – Five Years Later

"_I think it's time, Al." _

The city, lit up nearly as bright as day even as the midnight oil burned and burned, was pulsing with life. No one looked up and, even if they had, no one would have seen the shadow in the shadows, watching and waiting, ready.

"_Time, sir?"_

It had been a long time since Dick had worn a cape, something he abandoned when he left Robin behind and took up the Nightwing mantle. His hair, grown out over the past five years, poked out from under the bottom of the cowl that replaced his usual domino mask. He made a mental note to makes sure it was always trimmed just a little shorter from then on.

"_Time for him to come back."_

Taking a deep breath, he stood, pulling his grappling hook from its usual spot hanging from his belt. The weight was familiar and comforting in his hand as he aimed it. If his intel was correct, he would be needed down at the docks.

"_Really? Why now, after all this time?"_

His Batcycle was parked a block away, concealed behind a dumpster in a dark alley. He had debated for the longest time whether or not to bring the Batmobile out of retirement, but it was just too noticeable. This was the dawn of a new day, a fresh start. He didn't want that kind of attention. Not just then. He would take things slowly.

"_The people of Gotham. . . He was a symbol to them. Hope, strength, justice. When he died. . . I wasn't ready to put on that cowl, Al, and they weren't ready for me to. I always knew I would, someday, but not until I was ready, not until they were ready. They've been settling for Nightwing, but Batman is the hero this city needs now. I think it's time."_

It was an arms deal that would put lots of sub-machine guns on the streets if it went down. As soon as he saw the shipment, that was his time to strike. Taking down a few gang bangers – heavily armed as they were – that was child's play. He could have done it in his sleep. When they were all tied up for the police, he could hear the whining of sirens fill the air. Before he disappeared into the night, he left a Bat-a-rang (not a Bird-a-rang) in the wall above the apprehended criminals, something of a calling card.

"_I shall begin making preparations immediately, then, Master Dick."_

There would be no mistake.

The Batman is back.

~OoO~

Dick yawned widely as the car rolled up in front of the Wayne Enterprises building, twenty minutes late as per the usual. It had been a long night and he hadn't gotten much sleep. Smirking a little, Al wished him a good day before Dick stepped out onto the busy Gotham sidewalk, brief case in hand. As he looked up at the bold letters that denoted the company name to the world, he couldn't help but remember the conversation that led to him becoming CEO.

"_You can't keep running away from this, Richard," Lucius warned, repeating the words Dick had already heard a thousand times. Dick rolled his eyes._

"_Watch me." Lucius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to be CEO. I hate corporate business crap. You know that." And hate it he did; the whole thing bored him. He was a circus brat, after all, not a suit and tie kind of guy._

"_Dick, it's been a year. We laid Bruce to rest. He. . . he wanted you to run this company when he was gone, son. And I'm not going to be live forever."_

"_His will said he _hoped_ I would, not that I _had _to."_

"_That hardly matters." Dick didn't say anything, set on being stubborn about it. "Look, I understand how you feel, really I do. It was Bruce's family's company, and you feel like you don't have any right to take over because you're not technically family, but that never mattered to him. You and Jason. . . you were like sons to him, blood or no blood." Dick turned his head. "I know for a fact that you have been studying up on business and you have learned everything there is to know about this company. You know how this is going to end."_

"_I don't want to be CEO," Dick repeated after a long moment of silence. "Stop asking me."_

"_I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. Take over, or I will have my resignation turned in by the end of business today." Dick narrowed his eyes, looking back at the man._

"_Are you threatening me?"_

"_It's not a threat; it's a promise."_

A week later, Lucius stepped down and Dick was acting CEO. That was a year after what happened in Bosnia happened. And actually, Dick was more of a figure head, with Lucius pulling the strings. The man knew what was best for the company. And, yes, Lucius was getting old, and sooner or later, Dick would have to actually do his job, but that was a bridge he would cross when he got there.

"Good morning, Mr. Grayson," the kindly old secretary greeted as he walked into the lobby. "Almost on time today, too." Dick chuckled, flashing a smile and waving at her as he passed by. That was something of a running joke with all of them. He didn't mind. Whatever made them happy.

The elevator opened with a _ding!_ and Dick stepped inside, pressing the button for the top floor. Just before the door slid closed, however, the toe of a woman's shoe jammed itself in the track, prompting it to open once more. The woman squeezed in before it fully opened and jabbed her thumb on the '13' button.

She looked a little worse for wear, light brown hair pulled into a hasty ponytail and clothes ruffled. The stack of binders she held had dozens of papers spilling out over the edges as if she had dropped them and had to quickly shove them back in. Maybe she had.

"Good morning, Rebecca," he greeted, grinning a little. "Having problems?" She glared up at him. _If looks could kill_, he thought, suppressing a bubble of laughter that rose in his chest.

"Shut up, Dick," she hissed. "I mean, _Mr. Grayson_." The corners of his lips tugged up a little more. She tried so hard to seem intimidating sometimes, but she was more like an irate chihuahua than a pit bull.

"Still sore with me, then," he concluded as he leaned against the wall, elbow resting on the awkward rail that stuck out of the wall of most elevators. "I did say I was sorry, didn't I?"

She faced the door as she began schooling her papers back into a passable shape. "Yes, you did."

"And you think I don't deserve forgiveness," he guessed. She looked pointedly at the door. "Becky?"

"I never said that," she snapped. "You just don't know how to go about getting it." Dick was somewhat surprised, and it seemed she was too. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to pull the words out of the air and stuff them back into her mouth. But the damage was already done.

"Enlighten me." Biting her lip, she glanced over at him. All of her bravado was gone and she looked very, breakable-y small. But, after that outburst, there was no way she was getting off the hook that easy.

With a sigh, she leaned against the wall herself. "Well. . . I mean, look at you!" He did, seeing exactly what he had in the mirror that morning. Crisp blue suit, perfectly straight tie (thanks to Al), and a spotless, wrinkle-free shirt. "You. . . . You just don't understand-"

Whatever he didn't understand, it seemed like he wasn't going to find out any time soon because the elevator slowed to a stop and the door slid open with a _ding!_ "Wow, it has been _great _talking to you, Dick, but this is my floor. Have a good day!" She bolted away as fast as her high-heeled feet would carry her.

"We're not done with this conversation!" he called after her before the door closed once more and he continued his journey upwards.

~OoO~

It was just after two and Dick was seated at his desk, reading through report after report, occasionally stopping long enough to take a drink of his coffee. Then something black slid to a stop in front of him. It was a Bat-a-rang, the one he had left at the arms deal if he wasn't mistaken. He didn't have to look up to know who was standing silently in his doorway; there was only one person who it could have been.

"A simple 'hello' would have sufficed, Babs," he said, putting the packet of papers he had been reading back on the pile it had come from. He looked up. Barbara invited herself in, closing the door before crossing the room. She stood in front of his desk, just staring at him. "Can I help you?"

"You can explain why the hell you left that at my crime scene," she told him, taking a seat in one of the comfy, plush chairs that sat opposite of him. The corners of his lips tugged up.

"Was I not supposed to? Detective?" She smiled back. Dick only ever called her Detective when he was teasing her. But it was true. After losing Bruce, then Jason, she gave up Batgirl, but she couldn't give up the law. She worked with her father in the GCPD.

"Dick, I thought. . . I thought we agreed to let Batman die." Dick leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers together behind his back. "I thought you moved on."

"I said I would let him rest, not that he was dead for good." She sighed.

"Are you sure it's a good idea bringing him back?" she asked. "This doesn't have anything to do with Jason, does it?" Dick raised an eyebrow.

"Why would it?"

"Well, he took it pretty hard when you told him that you weren't going to take up the Batman mantle, and I know you blame yourself for him leaving – no, don't_ even_ try to tell me you don't; I know better. I just need to know that you're not just doing to this as some deluded attempt to try to get him to come home."

"This has nothing to do with Jason," he told her, eyes betraying nothing to say otherwise. "Look around you, Babs. This city is falling apart at the seams. Last night's arms deal was the fifth one in three months that I stopped, and I don't think I even want to know how many you've taken down. The drug trade is at an all-time high. Neither of us can find, let alone get close to the king pins that are keeping it going."

"And you think bringing Batman back from the dead is going to change that?"

"Those guys, they look at Nightwing and see a kid trying to play in the big leagues, and that's bad. Maybe they'll think twice when they've got Batman waiting in the shadows." She sighed again, chewing over his words. Finally, after a long moment, she nodded and stood.

"Just be prepared to lay in your bed once you've made it," she said without looking back at him as she made for the door

"Duly noted. Bye, Barbara."

She looked over her shoulder, hand on the door knob, and smiled. "Bye, Dick."


End file.
